there's an emphasis on

hands melting like the

wax of unlit candles.

reaching out.

the stifled coughs of a

pew's darkness  can be

heard, along with the

smell of freshly baked

bread.

Rembrandt works his way

through a crowd, to where

icons live in paint.

with no need of restoration.

a glass blown urn,

pit to the stomach

of fire.

convexed with bounding

residuals.

gush thus water, gush thus fire,

gush thus air, gush thus earth,

gush thus ether!!!!?

meta-realities of ostensible I-s

deigning to unbecome, seen aright

in part.

elemental satiety--nonplussed aums,

lightless dins held to nothing visible.

A large rectangular marble

table, networking veins

of greyer and greyer areas.

Coursing through a concessional

white, interspersed by dappled

glimmers of light fixtures above.

The cafe's window showcasing

a slushier version of said table,

an oddly persistent optical illusion

of non ****** snow.

finality is an incipient keeper,

it knows its airs.

will see them to their high

appointment, with events already

at play within the kingdom.

which has conspired a-no-turning-back.

there's no outwitting a crown, whose

wits were lost therefore granted.

Perhaps you're

in a place where

no reflection suits

you.

almost like an indigestible

life force.

lumping a stone's throat.

as overrich

paeans trouble

your deadlock.

how disconcerting to be

known for what you are.

if what lives, has moved

out.

a noseless breather, skeletally pug--

(pura oblivio)

smells the cooler end of air like rubbing

alcohol.

as a moldered dog would thru a dingy

screen, watching a raven that dances

in a series of flops.

the mock-break of wings in a caw of

exilement, as the secret passageways of

leaves fly open.

who ever

wrote

poetry on

their spare

time?

no such thing.

Gelled mint green tipping
sloughed yellows, to
out-dream day...bubbling a field by
and by a blue wind.
Cranking gobbed eyes with no surge protectors.
Reflexive right hand taking oaths of: hello and goodbye...
childlike in the eye of a hurricane's spokes.
Fire truck red, tri-cycled eyes trained on direction
none and all.
Parked above a park's day--the outspread wings
of a hawk crucified to a point still.
A point placed, as it sparks, flakes, falls and chills.

streetlights stood like counterintuitive
candle snuffers, or surgeons passing
out with their headlights on.
as with that which cannot be named, the
broader sense of any word: wind.
linearly gone, its goneness blew in tandem--as if direction's not to be believed.
with no sound, if it weren't thru things as
they were--yet sound became of wind.
there is no clarifier of these obfuscations,
i myself was held as responsible as the
night.
black hood on, with all the solitariness of
of a walk wandering into something far
more in its element by extension.
coldly slumped over, leaves ripped away
from, then to--(disambiguation)?
not quite.

sometimes you speak so

directly to one another...

you come to speak indirectly.

just to backtrack what knew

not a jot of difference.

then comes the extraordinary

strength of that man, that

woman.

coming together to part at all

times.

for as long as it holds.

(craggy scowl)

come again!!!

Florestan's pithy down

the gullet of a dungeon.

cohabitation of echoes,

already taken in.

flesh made of their pliant

ghosts.

wie dunkel es hier ist.

notata van Beethoven--

rewrite of Fidelio.

naysay of no sound

entering.

you who know of me,

& approach by virtue

of a circle--for communicatory

purposes.

write it down, so music will

eventually leap off the page.

what is black of the hole of

its center, is the center of all

self-proclaimed centers.

white circumference.

beyond contrived alignments,

and spiritual paraphenalia.

no relapsing stasis, no angle on

the curve, no time to bend.

not even the quick **** of a spirit's

misshapen direction, not even an

after-moment of an annihilatory

pre-continuum.

only the ingressive freedom from

awareness.

not even a purple tint on the most

incalculable black.

the is-ness of blackness never is...

it is possible to be

blinded by perfection.

without suffering

the excommunication

of having walked

thru walls.

space has always heard disembodied
voices--then mouths eventually
opened with shocks of sound.
when that involuntarily comes across,
incantations are dwarfed--meaning to.
as if through a corresponding row of
numbers, that give way to unlikey
shapes that compliment one another.
a cluster of grapes resting on the hip
of a naked woman, lying on her side.
light-canceling curtains purporting
the birthplace of darkness, net
motions loose as color left scheming.
though nothing stirs--per se.

I followed cruelty home after it

did unto another.

I was so certain it knew it was

being followed--that I felt followed.

Conscience is to know the feeling,

how well?

I had to see what cruelty does with

itself, the psychotic breaks it

undergoes.

Not to be cruel.

it's all very prepubescent--they'll drag out

a box of toys by its crinkled lip from a hiding

place, & begin to rummage.

as if the box's stomach were growling, the greedy

dig underway.

toys of interest haphazardly make the carpet's cut.

then the remaining box of toys is kicked back into

its Precambrian closet, as with a tentative tantrum.

toy worlds in all phases of creation intersect, collide &

are destroyed--with a handful of survivors combining

shellshocked wisdom.

then even they go their separate ways in Adam & Eve like

scenarios...the prepubescent's *** feels bloodlessly sore.

gets up, retarding calisthenics--leaving behind a mess of

cause & effect.

not dissimilar from the novelty-parasites you may encounter

in relationships.

...Please don't...try to move another
human being as dead weight upon
a polarized black/white chessboard.
Our here...and...NOW...is too charged...
(again...TOO CHARGED)...and will
demand an equanimous outcome.
Trade the object of perception for
the Subject of perception wherever you
may be...perception itself must dissolve
into its chessboard...O Consciousness...
O God!!!

License plates...lettered ones that form
words...numbered ones that also form
numeric words.
It's travel amongst years/light years...
so if you are literate, the master will come
to the student that's ready...read!!!
Language as numeric value is confounded
to consensus sweeps...read everywhere!
Language as linguistic value is confounded
to consensus sweeps...read everywhere!
How more ***** can an alien landscape
become?
** highways...and byways!!!

As a compendium
of somber faces
become a dentist's
occupational hazard,
so with death.
Trying to die with
the dying, the very
lifeblood of suicidal
tendency.
Only, the dentist is
successful--and death
is forced to say: open
up wide.